


Asylum

by SomeBratInAMask, writingandchocolatemilk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: “So, you’re a fireman? I heard that little story you told Feliciano.”Ah, so Ivan had been listening. Well, good. “Yeah, but I had forgotten some stuff. There’s a lot to it, you know, there’s a lot to saving people.”“And being a pilot?”That’s right, that’s where Alfred had received his firefighting training. You just don’t show up to a big ass fire without training, so they taught that in the air force, in case the planes ever caught fire on the air force ships, or the field, how to save people. Alfred wasn’t lying about that, Alfred didn’t lie, like everyone kept saying.





	1. The Delusions of Alfred F. Jones

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello, welcome to this venture !**
> 
> **This is a fic co-written by myself and somebratinamask.**
> 
> **There are several chapters planned, but for now there are two written. This is a fic primarily devoted to RusAme, but GerIta is essential to the plot and will come up later**
> 
> **Alfred's POV brought to you by the writingandchocolatemilk.**
> 
> **We hope you enjoy.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred F. Jones is perfectly normal, really. Why is he here?

Alfred F. Jones was an honest, true, good American, and as such, he did not lie. Well, sometimes he  _had_  to lie, but that was always for the greater good, for helping people, so it wasn't the same thing as lying-lying. It was like telling kids about Santa, or the Tooth Fairy, because it was fun and for their own good, and  _that_  was why Alfred lied, sometimes, but not today.

No, not today when the concerned nurse frowned down at him and asked him: "Why did you go into the burning building, Alfred? Can you tell me that?"

So, Alfred F. Jones said what he said when it wasn't a Santa situation, which was the truth: "Because I'm a fireman."

The nurse, who had kind eyes even if her mouth was set a little hard, looked at him with soft admiration. "No, Alfred, you're not a fireman. Can you tell me why you ran into the fire?"

Of course Alfred was a fireman, he had wanted to be a fireman since he was, what, seven years old? He had been running into smoky buildings for, what, at least six years now? Something like that, after college, and he just hadn't had time to grab his equipment, but people had been in trouble, and so Alfred did what firemen do and ran into the fire.

He told the nurse this.

And then Matthew burst into the room.

"You're an  _idiot_ , Alfred!" Matthew said, voice on the edge of hysterics.

"Calm down, Mattie, I'm f—"

"You're  _not_  fine! You almost died from smoke inhalation, Alfred, do you understand me!? You almost  _died_." Matt collapsed in a chair and put his face in his hands. "I can't do this anymore, Alfred, I just can't."

God, his brother was so hysterical sometimes. He always blew things out of proportion and always bitched and moaned about how Alfred wasn't being responsible, but Alfred saw an issue and you know what, Alfred  _acted_ , that was more than Matthew could say for himself.

But, of course, it wasn't Alfred's job to tell Matt how timid he was. Alfred struggled to sit up under the wires checking his pulse and the IV lines and the oxygen mask, and leaned over to give Mattie a reassuring squeeze on the knee, and a kind smile, because it was  _alright_.

"Mattie, come on now, I've gotten into scrapes worse than this. I'm a fireman, remember—"

Matthew looked at the nurse, eyes wide. "He does this. He's fine for a few months and then he'll do something fucking  _stupid_  like this and—and—he's never done anything like  _this_  before. It's just—he'll climb trees to get cats or walk around at night being a vigilante he's never… never…"

The nurse clicked her tongue.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, Alfred should have lied.

He had nothing against the nurse, he was sure she was perfectly fine in her spare time, but also she was sort of a giant bitch.

 

* * *

 

This new nurse, a woman with a smile that was much warmer than the other nurse, took his blood pressures and asked him if he was on any medication, explained her name was Amy, and that she was going to be showing him around, where the bathrooms were, that he had to keep his wristband on with his name.

The whole place was basically a giant circle, with rooms lining either side—well, not a circle, but a square, but it looped around—and there was only one set of doors out, the one that Alfred came through. He had been buzzed in and then Amy had relocked the doors.

"Hey, Amy," Alfred said, giving her a warm smile, "why are the doors locked?"

Well, apparently not everyone wanted to be here, which was fair. Alfred didn't particularly want to be here either, but he wondered if Amy thought he was one of the  _unruly_  ones, because of course he wasn't, even if that bitchy nurse had listened to his hysterical brother, but this was a misunderstanding.

Alfred found that if he was agreeable, even if it was silly, people cut him slack.

Still though. He eyed the locked doors as they passed by. And the nurses' station was locked. He watched the nurses—who didn't wear scrubs, even though they were in the hospital—jingle their keys to enter the sections Alfred was barred from.

Amy returned. "Have you ever taken antipsychotic pills, Alfred?"

"Nah, I'm healthy."

Amy nodded, and then explained that he wasn't a fireman—Jesus, what was it with these people? You'd think they had his autobiography run through an antonym machine—and that these pills would help him have a better grip on his "situation."

Alfred smiled and swallowed them down pleasantly enough.

At least Matthew had brought him an overnight bag.

 

* * *

 

Alfred had never had a roommate before.

Alfred watched his sleeping form intently, chin resting in his hand. The only roommate he had ever had was Mattie, and it was exactly as much fun as was to be expected. Matthew hadn't even let Alfred get a dog—can you believe that?  _Get_  a dog, like  _Matt_  was his dad or some shit.

"Can I help you?" The roommate was looking at Alfred.

Alfred grinned. "Good, you're up. I'm Alfred F. Jones, and I'm a fireman. I hope we can split this rent evenly between the two of us, and I'm getting a dog, so I hope you're a dog person."

The roommate blinked at him. "Hello, Alfred, it's three in the morning. I would appreciate it if you would stop muttering and let me get some sleep."

Ah, so if  _that_  was how the roommate was going to be, that was fine. But of course, they wouldn't let Alfred switch roommates, it was too late or early or something, and this other nurse was much bigger and had an actual uniform on, and he told Alfred to  _get back to bed_  in a way Alfred was familiar with, because it was usually how people spoke to him before they punched him.

"Hey, easy, big guy! Alright, alright, I'm going to bed. It's just that this guy over here sucks, and—"

"Back to  _bed_ , Jones."

Two out of the three nurses so far were giant dickheads. Alfred was not impressed.

 

* * *

 

"Alfred?"

Alfred stood up and gave a little bow to the circle. "Hello, all! I am Alfred F. Jones, the best damn fireman this side of the Mississippi, which is saying a lot, considering how heavily populated the East Coast is! See these burns? I got them from saving people from a blaze! I had smoke inhalation."

Of course, no one was awake this early in the morning, and the nurses took his blood pressure and talked to him in soothing voices and gave him more pills and no one even  _asked_  what it was like being a fucking  _fireman_ , which was cool as shit, but whatever, fine.

One jumpy kid gave him a curious look. "Are you really a fireman?"

Alfred jumped on the opportunity this—what was his name? Feli-something? This Feli, then—gave him. Yes, you should have seen the fire. Alfred threw his hands in the air, making a  _whoosh_ ing noise of the timbers being eaten—the heat, Feli, you could have felt it from forty feet away, and it was night, of course, so Alfred's eyes had been drawn to the light like a moth to a flame, the cinders flying into the air so high they could have burned the underside of planes—

Which was a thought, because Alfred had a pilot's license, too—

But the fire, yes, and Alfred had just  _known_  there was someone calling for help, trapped under a fallen support beam, so of course Alfred had barged in there, searching frantically through the smoke, his glasses practically melting on his nose.

Feli watched, enraptured, captivated by this story, and Alfred was happy he could make at least one friend in this place.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon brought with it drowsiness. Alfred sat on his bed, looking at the bandages on his hands, rerunning the story he had told that Feli-kid, fixing details he had forgotten, like how this woman was worried about her baby and was yelling for help, that was—

"I haven't introduced myself."

Alfred looked up at the shit roommate. "Oh, now you want to talk?"

"Yes, when it's not the middle of the night, I think you will find me much more amicable. I'm Ivan."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"So, you're a fireman? I heard that little story you told Feliciano."

Ah, so  _Ivan_  had been listening. Well, good. "Yeah, but I had forgotten some stuff. There's a lot to it, you know, there's a lot to saving people."

"And being a pilot?"

That's right, that's where Alfred had received his firefighting training. You just don't show up to a big ass fire without training, so they taught that in the air force, in case the planes ever caught fire on the air force ships, or the field, how to save people. Alfred wasn't lying about that, Alfred didn't lie, like everyone kept saying.

Ivan asked after Alfred's hands, and Alfred had to end up showing him the burns, explaining how it had been from moving fallen timbers, and of course he usually  _wore gear_ , but there was no time to act, this lady was screaming for her kid and what was Alfred going to do? What was smoke inhalation to saving a child? A baby, two actually.

Sometimes, you just needed to act.

Ivan gave him a look—probably feeling bad he had been a dick earlier. But by this point, Alfred was tired of talking.

 

* * *

 

Alfred didn't like this doctor.

"Alfred, I'm going to need you to cooperate. The only way you can get better is to work with me here."

The doctor was fucking condescending, that's what. There was nothing  _wrong_  with Alfred, this was all a misunderstanding, for fuck's sake Alfred was a pilot, he had saved a family from a fucking  _fire_ , he didn't need to be in the hospital, right?

And how were the meds making Alfred feel?

Tired, they were making him tired and sluggish. Alfred had slept all afternoon, and then had been kept in his room by another dickhead nurse who said it was too late to walk, so Alfred was left jiggling his knee all night and wondering where the fuck all his shoelaces had gone, and why hadn't Matthew packed him anything to  _do_.

And look, he had a twitch.

"That's a side effect."

To what?

And then the doctor spouted off the name of the medication which meant dick-all to Alfred, and again, they were antipsychotic meds, but Alfred wasn't doing anything psychotic!

It was like having the same conversation on a loop.

 

* * *

 

"Alfred."

Alfred focused on Matthew. "Please tell me you brought something for me to do. I'm bouncing off the walls here, I'm going fucking  _crazy_."

Matt nodded. "I brought you the stuff you keep hidden under your bed."

The good stuff, how did he know where Alfred kept the good stuff? All the good comics collectors would kill to have—

"Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"Alfred, why do you think you're a pilot?"

"Because how else would I have training for the fire?" Alfred held up his bandaged hands.

Mattie nodded. "So, you're in the military?"

"Yes."

Mattie nodded again. "Okay. How old are you?"

"Do you seriously not know how old I am?"

"Of course I do, I'm your brother. Just humor me and I'll give you comics."

Alfred rolled his eyes. He loved his brother, but look, again with the dad shit, the ultimatums! "I'm twenty-four."

"Okay, and when did you go to the military?"

"I—"

Mattie leaned forward. "No, think about it. It wasn't when you were eighteen, right? Because you went to college for a bit, remember? Until you were twenty-two, right? And then we moved closer to our Dads, right? How were you trained and deployed in two years?"

"People are trained and deployed in two years—"

"No, because you were there for the vow renewals, right?"

Alfred frowned. Yeah, that was right, that shit was boring and long and sappy, and Alfred had nearly torn his skin off keeping still that long, but he had smiled and hugged everyone like his Father had told him to do, good boy.

"Alfred, you're not a pilot, right?"

Right, yeah, of course. Who the fuck had been saying he's a pilot? That's stupid—although, of course, he could see where the confusion could come in, Alfred was very trim and had the calm demeanor of a pilot—but Alfred hadn't had the time to enlist, unfortunately, he was busy at school.

And busy with the volunteer firefighters, of course.

But Alfred kept that to himself and Mattie gave him a box filled with, finally, something interesting.

 

* * *

 

Feli was saying something interesting. "I know it's all in my head, I get that, but it doesn't stop me from hearing things, you know? And then you start to wonder what's real or not, because how can you really  _know_ , know, you know? Because sometimes you ignore something and it's real."

 

* * *

 

Ivan tilted his head. "What are you thinking about?"

Alfred picked at the scabs on his hands, irritated with them. They were itchy and he was tired and twitchy and the shit Matthew had brought him had only lasted—only lasted for a few hours, and now Alfred was without things to do, and he was stuck watching boring movies and walking outside for like, two seconds.

So that thing Feli had said the other day was eating at him. Because he had sounded delusional, right? That's what Alfred thought, anyways, because how the fuck do you mishear things that are real? Maybe fake things, but it's like when there's a ringing in your ears, you make a noise in your throat and the fake ringing fades back and you can figure out it was just the blood in your ears.

"Yes, Feliciano has schizophrenic."

Right, exactly, Alfred knew that shit, he was wondering more like, well, what was Alfred doing here? Clearly it was a misunderstanding, but Matthew had been here, and Matt didn't do anything without calling Papa and talking for fucking hours on end, so Alfred's parents knew he was here, but Alfred wasn't a schizo, just—

"You're not delusional?" Ivan asked, raising his eyebrows.

Alfred glared at him. "No, I'm not fucking delusional."

"You take the same pills as Feliciano, don't you?"

Ivan didn't know if they were the same pills.

"I do, actually. Small, yellow, with a line through the middle."

Alfred's mind jumped back to that morning, when meds were being passed out. Yeah, yeah, that sounded about right. That's what his looked like, anyways, and yes, actually, he was sure Feli did take the same ones.

"Same ones Feliciano takes," Ivan insisted.

Well, clearly that was just a mistake, then. All Alfred had to do was go to one of the nurses and tell them they had messed up the medication, just knock on that glass and smile like he did and tell them no, he wasn't a schizophrenic, not like Feli—

"That wouldn't work though, would it?" Ivan asked.

Alfred hesitated at the door. Ivan knew what drugs he and Feli took. "Why wouldn't it?"

Ivan gave a casual shrug and leaned back against his pillows. "I could see them messing up your drugs once, twice, maybe even three times. But you've been here, what, two weeks now? You've talked to the doctor how many times, to your nurse Amy, and they keep giving you the 'wrong' drugs?"

"You're saying it's intentional?"

Ivan gave another little shrug and flipped a page in his book.

No, he couldn't just say that and fuck off. But that didn't make  _sense_ , Alfred was in a hospital, why would they give him the wrong medication on purpose? Although, none of the nurses wore any scrubs, and that was just sanitary, wasn't it, wearing scrubs? That had been bugging Alfred, and it was weird how they took his blood pressure, what did that have to do with anything?

And the twitch. Alfred looked at his hand that moved without his permission, and how he had  _been_  telling the doctor that he was drowsy. Or maybe they were placebo pills, doctors did that sometimes, too, to test medication. That would explain why they were giving it to Alfred, to test it.

Feli was absolutely no help. He had no idea what medication he was taking, or what it looked like, and he had no idea what his official diagnosis was, he just kept saying something about dopamine, which made no fucking sense. Feli had no idea if any of the nurses were registered, he had no idea what the doctor's last name even was because it was slipping Alfred's mind—

Wait, no it wasn't. What was it that Matthew had been saying the other day? Alfred had gone to college.

Of course Ivan knew what medication Alfred was taking, because Alfred had prescribed it to himself. Ivan must have seen the slip. Relief dropped down Alfred's back like warm water, and he smiled.

 

* * *

 

Ivan leaned close enough to whisper into Alfred's ear without Alfred's coworkers hearing. "I see you're still taking your pills."

Alfred pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked at Ivan through half-lidded eyes. "Of course I'm taking my pills. It would be dumb to waste the prescription. You're wrong, by the way, Feli and I  _don't_  take the same meds. I take Flutix and he takes Harbidrole. It's an easy mistake, really, they  _do_  look similar, but Harbidrole is used for schizophrenia, while I clearly don't have schizophrenia."

"Ah, so you're a doctor, now."

Yes, of course. Alfred was a little young, sure, but he was in advanced classes, and he was halfway through his residency before this little incident, he was studying—

"And the firefighting?"

What? Oh, yes, well, that was just on a  _volunteer_  basis, just to pad his resume so he could get into medical school, which was difficult enough, but Alfred managed it after only a year and a half at undergrad. It—

"So, if you don't mind me asking, why are you in a psych ward, Dr. Jones?"

Part of Alfred's residency, plus Alfred was feeling very stressed with medical school—

"And what is your diagnosis?"

"Like I said," Alfred said primly, "stress, mainly. That's what Flutix is used for. It has to do with dopamine."

"Oh, dopamine, of course. And dopamine has to do with stress, doesn't it, Dr. Jones."

"Yes." Alfred grinned. "Exactly. Very good."

"What are you studying?"

"Psychiatry."

Ivan tilted his head. "Could I ask you a question, Dr. Jones?"

"Of course. You are in a psych ward, of course, and I am studying psychiatry." Dr. Jones was a man of the people after all, and what was a little free consultation among—

"What would you diagnose me with?" Ivan's lips twitched into a small smile. "If you would allow me to pick your brain."

Well, that was an easy one. Ivan was clearly a neurotic, distrustful, prone to conspiracy theories. Dr. Jones didn't know how to concisely put it, but it was clear in the way Ivan distrusted the medication Alfred prescribed himself, and was generally shifty—

"I'm shifty?"

Dr. Jones blinked. "Yeah, you didn't want a roommate, right? Distrustful of someone new."

Ivan's eyes lit up. "Actually, I'm very pleased with the turn of events that led to my new roommate. Thank you, Alfred, this has been enlightening."

Ivan touched Dr. Jones' elbow lightly as he passed.

Dr. Jones watched him walk down the hall. Yeah, that's right, he could diagnose people, because he was a doctor, but he hadn't much time to really get an in-depth look into most patients' brains because he was still so new on the floor, but he had talked to Feli.

Feli glanced up as Dr. Jones approached and smiled, and boy, did Dr. Jones have some great news for Feli. No, Feli,  _Dr. Jones_ , Alfred was a  _doctor_ , please, stop deflecting, Dr. Jones had some great news for Feli, he didn't have schizophrenia, he had seizures.

Yes, Feli, that's what make sense, doesn't it? It explained the weird hallucinations, why Feli was so absentminded, a mild form of epilepsy, definitely, Feli should definitely let his primary care doctor know as soon as he saw her again—

Yes,  _of course_  Dr. Jones was a doctor, he was only a firefighter on a volunteer basis, and even that was pretty rare, no,  _listen_ , Feli, Dr. Jones had graduated early from medical school through an advanced program, and was in the middle of his residency and was here to get a feel of where he would be working, and also due to stress.

 

* * *

 

"A doctor? Alfred, does that make sense to you?" the fellow doctor sitting across from Dr. Jones asked.

"That's Dr. Jones to you."

Dr. Jones sat in stubborn silence and the doctor had the audacity to sigh and shuffle papers in front on him, saying they'll try again tomorrow, Alfred.

"That's  _Dr_. Jones."

 

* * *

 

Dr. Jones sat on his bed, exhausted, watching Ivan, who wasn't doing all too terribly much. Now that Dr. Jones thought about it, both Ivan and Mattie did the same boring shit—namely, read a whole bunch. Didn't they get bored? Dr. Jones got bored watching them, and Dr. Jones was so fucking sick of being bored.

"What are you reading?" Alfred asked, nicking the book from Ivan's hands.

"Excuse me, I was reading that."

Yeah, and it was fucking boring. Dr. Jones walked back over to his bed and bent over the book, picking up where Ivan had left off, squinting through the dense, academic writing, trying to follow dates.

"It's a history book," Ivan said from the other side of the room.

Yeah, Dr. Jones could—

"Are you a fan of history?"

No, not really. It was always so dry for Dr. Jones' taste. It was cool when it was wars or explosions or spy missions, but mostly it was a lot of riots or picketing or death or presidents, and while it was interesting to learn, things like that didn't stick in Alfred's head very well, so he was left with a jumble of information and dates that didn't connect.

"I see." Ivan was clearly trying to get his book back with all this talk, but Dr. Jones wasn't—"What does stick in your head, then?"

"Physics." Alfred blinked at his own answer. "Math. Stuff with right and wrong answers."

Ivan watched Alfred flip through the pages of his book.

Alfred looked up. "I like space stuff. I thought it was really cool they could send satellites to different moons based on the gravity and orbit of other planets. I forget the word for it, but there's a way to make a satellite orbit around another body and then have it slingshot where you want it to go. Maybe it  _was_  slingshot-ing. Called that."

"So, my history book isn't very interesting to you, is it?"

Alfred snorted. No, of course it wasn't interesting, Dr. Jones only took it to see what was so fascinating—

"I have another book you might like."

If it was anything like the current book in Dr. Jones' possession—

Ivan sat up on his bed and reached underneath to pull out a plastic bin filled with books, enough to give even Matt a rough time of reading them all, which was saying something, and he moved a few stacks around until he found what he was looking for.

He held it out to Alfred. "Here."

Alfred already  _had_  a book—

Ivan waved the book in the air. "Come on, take it. You've read through those comics underneath your bed at least ten times, and I guarantee the book you have in your hands currently will put you to sleep faster than Flutix does."

Alfred stood and quickly exchanged books. Ivan didn't say another word, and curled back onto his bed, resuming where Alfred had left the pages.

Dr. Jones wasn't expecting much when he flipped open to a random page, but to his surprise, it was about space stuff. Granted, it was still boring ass history shit, but it went into the Cold War science behind all the space missions, how spies had stolen information.

Occasionally, Alfred would reach a part in the book that referenced something earlier that he hadn't read, so Alfred would need to flip back, but he would end up engrossed with this new part that led into the thing he had been reading later, so he would flip back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until there was nothing left.

And then Alfred started again.

 

* * *

 

Ivan glanced up at Alfred. "I was beginning to think I had lost you in there."

Alfred handed back the book and took a seat by Ivan on the ground because the chairs were too far away and Alfred had something he needed to do. He handed back the book and then handed him #4 of Mightnighter: Out.

Ivan raised an eyebrow and looked pleased. "I don't think I can spend three days reading a comic, but I will certainly do my…" Ivan actually seemed to get a good look at the cover. "There's… a hammer. And a sickle."

Yes, of course there was a hammer and sickle, Ivan was Russian.

"How did you know I was Russian?"

Well, it was easy with his last name and his accent, so slight that nothing but Alfred's trained ears could pick it up.

Alfred jumped up and nodded, because now Ivan could read about something he liked, as well, something he could connect with and take some hours away so he wasn't fidgety, either, something to keep his mind engaged and fingers from trembling even though he had told the doctor he was sick of the tic—

Ivan held the book back out. "You can keep it."

Alfred had snatched the book before he was even aware he had done it, it was just back in his hands. "You can't keep the comic."

"I wasn't planning to."

 

* * *

 

Few things went in the box, stuff that thieves and spies would spend hours pouring over, the smallest detail, the smallest word, the way the color faded into black or the way the plot twisted together from other stories to merge into a perfect issue that only made sense if you read the other ones, eyes red and tired and those who would spend days and days and days pouring over these things, studying, these are things that went in the box, to keep from those who would study instead.

These were precious things.

 

* * *

 

Alfred wondered, faintly whenever he caught himself waking up, why there weren't any windows in his room.

 

* * *

 

"You seem better."

Alfred glanced up from the table to Matthew, an ocean away on pills and the hard plastic-wood tables were made of. "There was nothing wrong with me to begin with." The words the doctor used came out across his tongue: "I get carried away with things."

Mattie let out a breath of air like a deflating balloon. "How are things?"

How were things? That was a question. "I sleep, a lot. And I've walked around that fucking ward enough times to wear a track in the linoleum, but I'm…"

He was what? Alfred could feel it, vaguely, something different, something just on the edge of his consciousness that usually got him going was bound and gagged, like the hum of a TV that was muted, a different sort of noise. It was strange and Alfred was afraid to think about it too much.

"It's good," Matthew said, firmly. "It's a good thing, the doctor said so."

Alfred frowned at this, and something about the phrase scratched at the back of his mind. Mattie told him about his shifts, about how Dad and Papa missed him and sent their love, of course. Alfred had the urge to scratch at his hairline.

"Are they coming to visit?"

Matt sighed again, and Alfred wondered when he had started doing that all the time, like everything Alfred said was the tenth time he had asked the same thing. "No, I don't think so. But I did bring you some things—"

"Why won't they visit?"

Matthew stared at him like a sinking ship. "Because they don't want to. They say it makes them too sad, Alfred, and I'm inclined to agree. What are you  _doing_  here!?"

_ That  _ was a good question, wasn't it?

Matthew let out another fucking sigh. "God, Alfred, what are you  _doing_  here?"

"Well, do you have something to say?"

Matthew let out a little laugh. "Do I have something to say—do you think you'll hear it? Or will you just get that deranged look in your eye and start rambling away about some—" Mattie hissed the word: " _Bullshit_  and ruin things  _again_?"

That wasn't fucking fair, Alfred didn't ruin jackshit—

"Yes, you have, and what's worse, you don't even think, you're a million miles away—"

Across a sea— "How the fuck do you know what my doctor said?"

Matthew froze for just a second, in the middle of looking around, of his shoulders slumping. "I didn't, I just know what an improvement looks like."

Alfred stood. "You're fucking  _lying_. You're not my emergency contact, I didn't give you  _permission_  to talk to my doctor, it's none of your fucking business about why I'm in here."

Matthew let out a laugh of sharp air. "It's not my  _business_ —do you  _hear_  yourself? Like I haven't been fucking  _forced_  into your  _business_ for years—"

"There you go again with that  _dad_  bullshit again!"

"What on earth are you—"

"You act like I'm a little kid!" Alfred loomed over Matthew.

Matthew didn't stand, face-to-face with Alfred, nose inches from his own, didn't shove him back, no, Mattie just sank further into his seat. "You  _are_  a little kid."

"Leave."

Matthew opened his mouth—

Alfred shoved Matthew, and his brother threw out his arms to stop himself from falling backwards out of the chair. "Alfred what the—"

"Leave and take your fucking party favors with you. They don't make up for the fact you use me to feel better about yourself, that treating me like an idiot makes you feel better because no one gives a shit about you, not Dad, not Papa, and  _especially_  not me."

Matt didn't even look up at him. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"No, I'm just usually too nice to tell you the obvious, but I'm sick of your  _sighing_  and I'm sick of the shit you bring me and I'm sick of you talking to my doctor and I'm sick of all of this!" Alfred whirled to the blond nurse hovering nearby. "And you can tell my fucking  _doctor_  that if I hear he's been talking to my brother, there's not a strong enough lock to keep me from leaving this place."

_ Now _  Matthew stood. "You're being—"

"Leave."

 

* * *

 

"You talked to my brother."

The doctor looked impassively back at him over his desk. "Does that bother you?"

"Yes, it fucking bothers me. What about doctor-patient confidentiality, doc? What about you not telling fucking lies to my brother about me?"

Oh, but they weren't lies, Alfred, he was just  _updating_ Matthew on Alfred's  _situation_ , but there wasn't a fucking situation! For fuck's sake, Alfred shouldn't be  _in_  here! And it was god damned illegal to keep him here without his permission.

"Matthew was concerned about your delusions, Alfred."

Delusions, delusions,  _what fucking delusions_ , those were misunderstandings, those were idiots, those were the  _doctor_  saying things about Alfred that just weren't true, maybe you're  _fucking_  delusional!

"Clearly, you're in no position to talk right now, Alfred. We'll try again tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Alfred didn't care about the fucking penguins, or about their stupid fucking eggs, or about how they were still in fucking Antarctica even though they should have fucking died off hundreds of years ago, thousands, millions, the timescale of evolution.

Alfred felt his eyes flicking from person to person until he reached an awfully large gap he hadn't noticed before, and his eyes landed on Ivan, an island in the tightly packed folding chairs of movie night.

"Look at the chick, Alfred," Feli breathed next to him.

Feli kept saying stupid shit like that, while Ivan got to have three chair-lengths of space around him like an asteroid impact.

 

* * *

 

And one that followed Ivan around like a bubble.

 

* * *

 

In the morning vitals line, Alfred could have sat in a chair between Ivan and the next person.

 

* * *

 

At recreation time, Ivan by the window, reading, people moving around him like water around a smooth stone that licked his finger to turn pages.

 

* * *

 

At meals, a table to himself, a fortress, a minefield.

 

* * *

Outdoors, Ivan could have been a hiker, alone, the last one on the Earth, walking through a field with his hands behind his back and a tent he could set up in abandoned cities.

 

* * *

 

A lion gripped a gazelle in his teeth while Alfred neatly stepped over the chairs in front of him and sat down next to Ivan. If Ivan was surprised, if Alfred held more interest than the stupid fucking Savannah, he certainly didn't show it.

"People are afraid of you."

Ivan's eyes held only the screen in front of him and did not turn their attention to Alfred. "I am trying to watch the movie. Your voice is loud and distracting."

"You don't give a shit about the movie."

"Interesting conclusion, because I'm watching it."

Alfred looked between Ivan and the projection. "Who gives a shit about lions?"

"Obviously not you."

Ivan's eyes were still glued to the screen and it was pissing Alfred right the fuck off.

"No one talks to you. All yesterday, no one, just the nurses and I would guess your doctor, but it must get lonely. All you do is read books and watch the shitty documentaries and nod when the nurses ask you to do something, and you don't have visitors that often, and you read fast and no one else reads the things you do so you have no one to talk to about them."

Finally, Ivan turned his eyes "So, Mr. Popular is pitying me? I have some bad news: I'm not going to sit at your lunch table."

"I wasn't inviting you." Alfred grinned at him. "But you  _are_  lonely. Or something. You didn't answer my questions, see, you're fucking deflecting and that shit doesn't work anymore. I might twitch like a motherfucker but you're  _lying_ , Braginski."

Half of Ivan's face was illuminated by the sunlit world an ocean away, and the other half was not. "And what am I lying about, Jones?"

Alfred stood and a shadow ate the projection. "You would totally sit at my lunch table if I invited you."

 

* * *

 

Ivan did not have any more books. He had boxes and boxes full of  _shit_ , but he did not have any more books, and Alfred should know, he had been digging under Ivan's bed nearly all evening, pulling out waste of tree pulp after waste of tree pulp and flipping to a random page only to find it wholly uninteresting.

Ivan had watched him at first, but he had soon picked up one of the books Alfred had tossed irritably away and began reading, trusting Alfred enough to look through his precious information. Not that there was much. Just shit.

"You know," Ivan said, licking a finger, "I could suggest a book to you."

No, that wasn't what Alfred wanted. He didn't want a  _suggestion_ , he wanted a book to call to him like a beacon, something influential that would change his world view like people had experienced with the Bible, but less boring than the Bible, because Alfred had tried that one and found it both hard to read and also a waste of paper and  _honestly_ , did every single book Ivan own try to use the biggest word possible? Like look, here,  _extraordinary_ , couldn't they just use  _great_?

Ivan proceeded to tell him about the merits of more precise words to communicate blah, blah, blah. Alfred watched Ivan's mouth move and watched his eyes continue to read as he lectured and the sound wasn't bad, soft. Alfred looked up at Ivan from his position on the floor, his feet under Ivan's bed, and thought about how few people had seen Ivan from this angle, looking up as Ivan read and talked, surrounded by books. And the sound really was quite lovely and Alfred just rested his head against Ivan's knee.

 

* * *

 

Alfred stared at the doorway, counting the shadows that walked by, counting his heart beat, dividing it by six, multiplied by twelve and a half and then subtracting by seven, fingers twitching, restarting when the shadows walked back in front of the door, boots heavy on the floor.

He had asked to go to the bathroom three times and it was only one in the morning, they were going to tell him to hold it if he didn't stop, they were going to call the nurses if he didn't stop—

"What are you thinking about?"

Alfred looked over to the other side of the room and found a companion in bed, sitting up, eyes bright in the gloom.

"I don't want to sleep." Alfred held up his hand and watched his hand trembled. "It feels like all I've been doing is sleeping and I don't want to do it anymore." Like a fog had settled over him, slowing his movements, the whole world banging on his front door and demanding his attention. And the world was so  _boring_.

"It is boring," Ivan said softly, "isn't it?"

Alfred blinked up at him, suddenly unsure if he had spoken aloud or not. "Why are you here, Ivan?"

Ivan head turned away from the light of the hallway, and if there had been a window in this jailcell, Ivan would have been looking out it and considering the question. As it was, he looked at the cinderblock walls and took longer to respond. "Because I was ordered to be here."

This clicked into place in Alfred's mind. So that was why people were afraid of him, because he wasn't kept here against his will by the  _hospital_ , but by someone else, because he didn't take the same pills in the morning and his responses weren't the same in group. Because someone higher had looked at Ivan and decided to make him come here.

"And why are you here, Alfred?"

Why was Alfred here. It was all people seemed to be asking him these days, and Alfred watched the shadow walk across the door and counted his heartbeat and divided and multiplied and subtracted and almost forgot to respond to a question that had been haunting him the past few days. "I'm not like Feli."

"No. No, you are most certainly not like Feliciano. Which begs the question, doesn't it?"

"I think… I think Mattie put me here." Alfred picked at some weird, dry stuff on his hands, wondering where it had come from, why it was there, when things like this started to bug him when they so clearly hadn't before. Had they? "Do you think that medication works?"

"Flutix?"

What the fuck was Flutix? "No, the shit they give me. The same bullshit they give Feli. Do you think it works? Do you think it's working? Do you—"

"I certainly think it does something."

Ivan's figure swam in Alfred's vision and his eyes burned and his head was full of fuzz and he could feel the darkness pulling him down, pulling his eyelids down and his head started to dip even as he jerked up to try and stay awake and even as Ivan stood and walked over to him and it felt so good to slip into that blank space in his head and give in and Ivan looked down at him and

 

* * *

 

Alfred frowned. "Where did you get that?"

Feli looked up. "Hm?"

Alfred pointed at the brownie Feli was holding. "Where did you get that? I didn't get one, and everyone else only gets Jell-O here for dessert. How the  _fuck_  did you get a brownie, Feli?"

Feli looked at the brownie in his hand like he was surprised to see it there, the fucker. "Oh, um, I don't know. It was just on my food tray, and I just thought that I could eat it because it was there—"

"Why didn't anyone else get a brownie?" Alfred leaned over and snatched the paper slip that detailed Feli's food order, and yep, the slip had Feli's name on it, so he hadn't taken someone else's tray by accident. "What makes you so special that you get a good dessert?"

Feli was staring at him with wide eyes, frozen, scrambling for an excuse. "I—I don't know, I just eat what they—"

"No, that's bullshit. They have a locked room and you have to ride on an elevator to get up here, they don't  _make_  mistakes, there aren't any windows. You didn't just get a brownie by mistake. There's other shit, too, you get more bathroom breaks at night, and I bet you there's other shit I didn't notice, either."

"Alfred," Feli said, voice bordering on yelling, defensive, "I don't know why I got a brownie." His voice wavered and his eyes were glassy and Alfred wasn't buying that shit for a second. "But I'm sure if I just tell—"

"Alfred." Ivan's voice was like a fire extinguisher, cold and calm and dousing, a tone that could get in your lungs and seep into your bloodstream and calm anger. Alfred hadn't even heard him walk over, and he leaned backwards to look at him. "Could I talk to you for a moment?"

Alfred shoved himself away from the table, glaring at Feli as Ivan gently led him away by the small of the back to the corner of the room, where he stood, head tilted as Alfred explained that Feli was fucking shifty as fuck, the brownie was just the final straw, something was  _off_  and Alfred didn't know what but Feli definitely had connections, he had a key to this place, a key or could feed notes through the heating vents to the kitchen—

"Alfred, do you  _really_  think Feliciano could pull all that off?"

Alfred watched Feli stare at his brownie, eyes wet and breath hitching, the schizo.

"Right, see," Ivan murmured, "it doesn't make sense for  _Feliciano_  to be the one orchestrating any grand brownie heist, does it?"

No. No, Alfred supposed not. No, but he was caught up in something, something he had no idea about, right over his head, a mile high. It was just a matter of who, and of course the obvious answer were the people keeping Feli here, and by extension, the people keeping Alfred here, but why, and what did the brownie have to do with it?

Well, it was obviously a reward, even if poor, stupid Feli had no idea it was. But, if there was one thing Feli was, was talkative, he could talk about the color of the tiles or about flowers or other dumb shit, so he  _was_  a spy—

"Come on Alfred, you can do better than that." Ivan looked over his shoulder at Feli. "I do wonder the coincidence, though, don't you?"

Okay, start over, Feli wasn't a spy, he was just a bystander. And Feli wasn't going to put two and two together, obviously, so that just…

Alfred bounced on the balls of his feet. "It has to do with me, I bet you. I'm the only guy in this place who's going to notice something like that, the only one who can put this together. It was a message from…"

From someone, and Alfred felt his brow furrow as he dug for answers.

"Feliciano as a means of communication. Yes, Alfred, I like that. Good boy."

 

* * *

 

Alfred couldn't think. He could feel the thoughts scatter away from him like marbles, ones he was constantly tripping over himself trying to capture, marbles covered in butter.  _Other_  thoughts kept interrupting on everything,  _stupid_  thoughts that made him hesitate and worry about instead.

When the doctor asked about Matthew, Alfred found himself wondering about Matt, where he was, if he missed Alfred, what he was doing with all of Alfred's stuff, how Dad and Papa were, how  _Matthew_  was, if he was still mad at Alfred, and Alfred found himself unable to remember Matthew's number when he tried to call, which just sent his mind spiraling more because what if Matthew had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, it was Alfred who had always checked the alarms and changed the batteries, how the apartment was, how Matthew was paying rent without Alfred's contribution and on and on and on and if Matt was  _mad_  at Alfred.

When Feli started avoiding him for whatever reason, Alfred's mind got on about that.  _Why_  was Feli avoiding him? It hardly seemed fair and Alfred hadn't even  _done_  anything besides out the obvious, so now Alfred watched Feli eat alone like a loser and Feli avoided looking at him and he got quiet and it was just such  _bullshit_  that Alfred couldn't comprehend it.

And Ivan. Alfred found Ivan plaguing Alfred's train of thought like a bandit. He had been ordered to be here, what could that fascinating thing mean, and did it have to do with the books Ivan read. He had touched Alfred's elbow and his back and had called Alfred a  _good boy_ , and he was always there to suggest something that Alfred hadn't even  _considered_ , make Alfred's mind reel with the possibilities and he seemed to  _like_  doing it, and he caught Ivan looking at him, head tilted and Alfred  _needed_  to figure out who was trying to get a message to him.

During movie nights, Alfred pressed his knee against Ivan's and watched Ivan pretend to ignore him.

Alfred changed in front of Ivan after his showers, dripping wet and slick, humming like he wasn't aware he was doing it, and he reveled in the eyes Ivan had for him.

But.

He needed to get his mind back on topic. He couldn't  _think_. And there was something  _up_  with the brownie—

"For the love of God, Alfred, stop with the brownie."

-and so Alfred had a plan. Alfred had big tonsils. When he was younger, he would stare at himself in the mirror, examining his eyes and his eyebrows and his hair and his teeth and the thing that dangled from the back of his throat and his tonsils. He had forced Mathew's mouth open (and nearly gotten a finger chomped off for his trouble) to compare, and  _Alfred's_ tonsils were much, much bigger.

"I hardly see what this has to do with the brownie, or more importantly, what this has to do with your special message." Ivan was pretending to read, like he did when Alfred told him his plans.

The next morning, waiting for his meds, Alfred pretended to swallow them as the nurse checked his cheeks and tongue and cheeks, but in reality they were resting on his tonsils. If he flexed his throat right, his tonsils stuck out, catching the pills like a net catching litter from his stream of thought.

Alfred waited for the nurse to move off, and then coughed up the pills into palm of his hand grinned at Ivan.

Ivan looked at the pills. "That was disgusting," he said mildly. "But clever."

"Of course it was  _clever_. I'm  _clever_. Now," Alfred said, flicking the pills through the heating vent, "I can  _think_  again."

"And what a delight that will be."

Alfred grinned.

 

* * *

 

Ordered to be here.

Alfred watched Ivan's sleeping form as the words ran over and over again in his head. Ordered to be here by who?

Someone stalked by the doorframe and Alfred watched them without his glasses on and in a half-haze of exhaustion and his mind couldn't connect the two pieces because that nurse was familiar, wasn't he, Alfred had seen him before, he knew it, he knew it.

 

* * *

 

It was like Alfred had downed energy drinks, he felt like he was on top of the world, a map spread before him and he could freely wander around it and no Feli, he wasn't  _hyper_  today, this was how he always was, it's just that Feli didn't notice things like Alfred did, not that it's a bad thing.

Well, Feli, it was simple really. Remember the brownie, it was apart of something bigger, something Feli hadn't realized before. It was a test, test for Alfred, to check how with it he was, if he was still trusting the pills they gave out—not that he wasn't taking them—but it had to do with the management. Did you ever notice how everything is locked around here, no, probably not, but the only way in and out: locked. The nurse's station: locked. Certain rooms, random rooms, one where Alfred had gotten his blood tested: locked. It didn't make sense because Alfred wasn't a threat to anyone.

It was the doctor. The head doctor, the one who ran everything—no, Feli, he isn't  _nice_ —well, if he  _was_  nice, that was just a ploy to get people to trust him. Clearly, he wasn't a good guy. That was the only thing that made sense to Alfred, that he was keeping people here against their will. People like Alfred, who shouldn't be here, and Ivan, who was ordered to be here, people like Feli who couldn't do much, even if he wanted to.

"Really?" Ivan asked. "Why would he want to keep people here?"

Well, that was simple, wasn't it? Doctors had egos, everyone knew that, almost as bad as ER nurses, and they liked to flex them. So when doctors like…

"Dr. Väinämöinen."

Right, yes, Dr. V, got some people who were misunderstood, it made him feel like he had a big dick to keep Alfred here, the fucker. But he wasn't completely evil, he just wanted to see if you were smarter than him, if you could solve his puzzles, catch his clues, he would let you go. Shit like the brownie.

"You are obsessed with this brownie."

It's all apart of the puzzle, Ivan.

And it made sense, too, that fucker was condescending as fuck, broke trust constantly, didn't give a  _fuck_  about doctor-patient confidentiality, flagrantly threw his weight around by ordering bullshit prescriptions, ignored complaints, and was generally just a giant cock.

 

* * *

 

There was something new in his box, something that shouldn't be there, something sharp. It was a box cutter, at the very bottom, hidden under a broken gyroscope and old thermometer, one Alfred had never seen before in his life, with a fresh, crisp blade, one that fit into his palm like it had been molded to.

 

* * *

 

There was something higher than the doctor, Ivan. The doctor must have a boss, right? Someone who looked into the workings of this whole fucking locked loop and laughed about it. This higher-someone knew about the doctor and knew about Alfred, had seen him in the ER, had picked him for this game. This higher-someone, that's who was—

"Alfred." Ivan's breath was hot against Alfred's neck and his toes were cold against Alfred's legs. "It's too late for this."

"But you believe me." Alfred rolled his head to look at Ivan, searching his face in the gloom. "This person, they're the one who ordered you to be here, right? You're a spy, you're someone who reports back to him, aren't you?" Alfred looked for a confirmation in a movement of Ivan's face.

Ivan reached a hand up and ran a finger along Alfred's jawline.

And there were two sections, one working for the doctor and one working for the higher person—

"The General?"

_ Yes _ , the General, some were working for him, some for the doctor, and the one working for the General, they were the one sending messages to Alfred, they were the ones who wanted to get him and Ivan out, Alfred had figured it out, didn't Ivan see, it was so simple, Alfred felt like an idiot for not seeing it soon—

"Do you know all those books I read, Alfred?"

Yes—

"I would burn all those books just to listen to you talk for ten minutes."

"Ten?"

Ivan let out a sigh and bit Alfred gently on the shoulder, then kissed him in the same spot, lightly, Alfred barely felt his lips there, light as a snowflake melting. "Five, even. But it is late, and the guards will change shifts soon."

Ivan stood and retreated to his bed and left Alfred aching after cold toes.

Alfred knew what he had to do.

 

* * *

 

"I want to talk," Alfred said.

The doctor looked at him with interest. "That's what I'm here for, after all."

No, Alfred was going to speak and the doctor was going to  _listen_ , and then he was going to decide. Alfred wasn't stupid, he had figured out what was going on around here. It hadn't been easy, but it made sense now, the pills, the wrongful imprisonment—

No, doctor, Alfred was going to speak first.

The  _wrongful_  imprisonment, the hints, the little things, the brownie, the gift someone had sent him, Mattie turning his back on Alfred, all these had melded into a perfect picture of what was going on around here.

And, Alfred spoke louder for the microphones no doubt planted around the room, he had figured out what the General was asking him to do. But Alfred was going to give the doctor a choice first, because Alfred was a good guy. Now, the good doctor could either let Alfred go and explain to Matthew that this whole thing was a mistake, could release Ivan and stop playing this demented game—let  _everyone_  go who didn't deserve to be here, or the doctor would see exactly what the General had planned for him.

No, answer the question first.

_ Answer _  the question.

Alright, fine, if that's how he wanted to do things. And so Alfred stood and showed him the gift the General had sent him.

The doctor stood immediately but his feet got caught up in the chair and he half fell on his desk, papers—Alfred's paper, papers that tracked his progress at the games and notes to the General—slid from the folder to the floor and Alfred had made it around the edge of the desk and the doctor was looking up at him with wide eyes and Alfred raised the gift and Alfred brought the gift down but the doctor had been raising his hands and Alfred's gift came down there instead of—instead of—

And now the doctor was bleeding and yelling and there was so much blood, dripping down his arms and off his elbows and falling to the ground and getting on those white notes and he shied away from Alfred and the doctor's feet finally came free of the chair and he slumped against the wall looking at his ruined palms and another fresh wave of blood seeped down his arms and Alfred suddenly didn't know what the General wanted now and he backed away and he looked around for the cameras and he told the doctor:

"I want to leave now."

The doctor nodded at him. "Alright, Alfred." His voice was small and scared but his face was composed even as he held his hands uselessly in front of him, and Alfred could see he had gotten him in between the thumb and the pointer finger and his thumb hung down at an odd angle that made Alfred's stomach turn.

And then a nurse burst into the room and Alfred was slammed into the ground and he was sorry, he didn't mean to, he got it wrong, he was sorry, he didn't want to hurt anyone he just wanted to go, please let him go home please please please


	2. The Fixations of Ivan Braginski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him. 
> 
> He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs. 
> 
> Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivan's POV brought to you by SomeBratInAMask

The sun is spilling over into the white-walled, white-floored, white-ceiling common room. Dr. Elizabeta Héderváry has pulled up two chairs for them in a secluded spot right by the glass wall overlooking the hospital gardens. His gaze is downcast; the light, while refreshing, is causing his eyes to ache.

  
He remembers his father telling him that the sunlight was always worse for those with fair eyes. He remembers asking his mom why that was and her answering, “Because they’re so pretty, the sun wants them for itself.” 

  
Funny, Ivan reflects, how little things from childhood carry over like that. He wonders if it would make sense to his mother, this thing with Alfred. If her explanation would contain the same logic.

  
“You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him. 

Ivan cannot circumvent her power like he usually tries to with people, particularly the people in the ward. He finds most people easy to pin like butterflies. Upon their initial meeting, Ivan didn’t think of her as a potential exception. She’s an honest woman, or at least seems to be, and there’s an accidental bluntness to the way she speaks sometimes like she forgets she’s a therapist and not a peer. Yet every time Ivan thinks he might get somewhere with her, the professional boundary slams down between them like a firewall. 

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.   
Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points. 

Ivan’s eyes catch on Ludwig, the guard in his pocket. One of many employees in his pocket. He is talking to Feliciano, the schizophrenic who’s always on the verge of tears, while Feliciano plays a one-man game of jenga on a plastic table in a fold-out chair. Ivan wants to tut at Ludwig for being so transparent, but he knows why he’s being bold as of late. Alfred has thrown the ward into a tizzy over his stunt and it may be awhile before anyone regains the energy to scrutinize interactions that don’t outright involve boxcutters. 

“Ivan?” Dr. Héderváry prods. “Are you with me still?” It’s the subtle, unprofessional impatience that leaks into her tone that goads Ivan into cracking a smile.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he assures, returning to their conversation. He considers outing Ludwig right now, but he tamps the anger down instead. Ludwig is not wholly useless yet. However much it feels that way with an empty, quiet bedroom. 

Ivan tilts his head and feigns having to think about Dr. Héderváry’s question. “Yes, you could say we were close. I was closer to him than I was to, say, Lukas. Or yourself,” Ivan throws in for the sake of distancing himself from her in a conversation with such a slippery edge. Revealing his cards now may remove all possibility in the future of reuniting with Alfred. “But whether I was closer to Alfred than Feliciano was, well, that I cannot vouch for. Sharing a room with someone for six months doesn’t make for acquaintances, but neither does it make for best friends.” Here, Ivan smiles politely with the faintest hint of amusement, like the whole situation is silly to make sense of.

He watches Dr. Héderváry’s face. She does not have a poker face so he takes advantage of this by always tracking her expressions when he plays along. She’s visibly mulling over Ivan’s half-confession. Her lips quirk to the side; shrugging with her mouth. “I guess you’re right,” she decides. 

Ivan feels some relief at successfully navigating his first session post-incident. Mostly, though, he wants to play jenga with Alfred.

 

* * *

 

Alfred talks an excruciating amount. Ivan does not welcome it at first. Natalya had sent him a box of his books from home, and although he’s read them all before, anything worth finishing the first time is worth starting again. Ivan is used to time with his thoughts and his books; he hasn’t had a roommate since his first partner requested to be away from him; a request that certainly would not have been granted had Feliciano not mentioned being uncomfortable in the dark alone.

Ivan learned quickly how things worked around here. He didn’t confront Ludwig right away because Ivan didn’t know what he wanted yet that wasn’t already provided, either through his eldest sister Katyusha who worked in security or his youngest Natalya who, since childhood, had a way of getting what she wanted that Ivan genuinely envied. Doors didn’t part for Ivan the way they did naturally to pretty, soft-spoken girls like his sisters. This is fine with him; he trusts them both to always work in his interest. 

Nonetheless, there isn’t much else available in a psych ward beyond extra perks in the commissary and a camera that never notices when Ivan takes out items he probably shouldn’t have. 

Until Alfred, that is, who is a migraine and a half to share space with. He bounces his knees and taps his feet constantly. He manages to pace the tiny floor of their room every day, which would be impressive if it wasn’t aggravating. It was like living with a puppy that didn’t want to be housebroken. This early on, Ivan has not yet learned how to handle Alfred. 

It gets easier when he stops tuning him out. Alfred is not always coherent, but he is entertaining and his company becomes a reprieve from his one-sided relationship with books. Alfred regales him with daring accounts of his firefighting adventures, which soon become touching recounts of the lives he’s healed as a doctor, and occasionally James Bond-esque missions will decorate his memories from spyhood, which are top secret and only revealed to Ivan because the same agency must have deployed them here. Ivan appreciates the spy fantasies the most for their applicability to daily life in the hospital. The General would be Ivan’s favorite character, whose schemes compose much of Alfred’s struggles and quests.

It’s during his doctor phase that Ivan asks for a diagnosis from “Dr. Jones.” 

Alfred sits in a chair in the common room, wholly transfixed on the text before him referencing medications and the DSM-5 in every sentence. It’s one of the books Ivan studied for his graduate degree. It’s not a light read by any means, nor an enjoyable one. “If you would allow me to pick your brain,” Ivan asks cordially, standing beside him.

Alfred does not look up from Ivan’s textbook. “Well, you’re a clearly a neurotic,” he says to Ivan’s surprise. “What with your lack of trust and your conspiracy theories.” Ivan has never seen such a direct example of projection. He feels a little pang of excitement, not like how one might feel on a rollercoaster, but — similar, he supposes, to when starting a long trip to a place he’s never been before. “Not to mention your general shiftiness,” adds Alfred.

Ivan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m shifty?”

Alfred looks up at him from the open book. His eyes are round with honesty and a bright blue more genuine than the sky. “Yeah, you didn’t want a roommate, right?” he points out. Ivan wouldn’t call that the case, but he knows by now Alfred is set to believe Ivan was the one with the problem their first night at 3am. “Distrustful of someone new,” Alfred explains, reasoning packed up nice and neat.

Ivan can’t fault him on that last part. Ivan has trusted people’s known longer less. But he thinks he enjoys Alfred nonetheless and, despite himself, finds him to be objectively trustworthy. Alfred can hardly remember anything that doesn’t have his name in it, let alone something he could use against Ivan. “Actually, I’m very pleased with the turn of events that led to my new roommate,” he confesses. Alfred is a novel experience and a reason to look forward to the otherwise redundancy of the hospital. “Thank you, Alfred, this has been enlightening.” 

Alfred may have also added something that wasn’t present even in Ivan’s life before the court order. What it is, Ivan isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s getting warmer when he squeezes Alfred’s elbow on his way past.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred is tucked into the arm of the floor’s only loveseat. He’s only reading a comic book, but Ivan has noticed him linger on pages longer than necessary and even flip back a few times. His focus is somewhere else, which is strange, because even before the medications kicked in Alfred was easily engrossed by his reading. 

Ivan walks over to him. “May I sit?” he asks. 

Alfred’s eyes flicker up briefly before returning to the page. “Free country.”

“For some,” Ivan agrees and takes a seat. The cushions are just a bit small for him, and the way Alfred is sitting with his feet up on the couch makes some touching inevitable. Ivan ignores how Alfred wiggles his toes inside his socks and how the tiny movements brush against Ivan’s thighs. He tries to ignore them anyways. He is not doing too well. “Your brother visits you often,” he comments. It’s not an accurate statement; Ivan actually receives far more visits than Alfred and Feliciano has a visitor every day.  _ Mattie’s  _ visits are irregular and spaced out over the course of weeks. Ivan is looking for a place to start, that’s all. 

Alfred scoffs and turns a page too roughly. The thin paper tears in the middle. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stop,” he says stormily. Ivan is mildly surprised; he’s fairly sure Mattie is his only visitor. 

“You would be alone without him,” informs Ivan. “Only Mattie ever comes, yes?”

Alfred bristles. “What of it?”

“Family is important, Alfred, you don’t want to risk isolating yourself. Mattie is your only connection to your family.”

“How do you know that?” Alfred eyes him suspiciously. Ivan is just pleased he is gaining Alfred’s full attention. 

“Well,” says Ivan, spreading out his palms, “they’re not here, are they?”

Alfred glares at him before looking sulkily at the pages. “Shut up,” he says. 

Ivan purses his lips so he doesn’t smile. It is hard not to smile around Alfred. “Where is your father, Alfred?” he pushes. 

“Fathers,” Alfred says.

“Hm?”

“I have two. Dad and Pop,” Alfred elaborates. Ivan realizes he was being corrected. Before he can prod, Alfred continues, “Neither of them are my biggest fans.” The admission is an unhappy one that easily betrays the nonchalance he is trying to affect. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Ivan lies. 

Alfred snorts. “Believe it. Papa never trusted me and Dad is convinced I’m full of it and only here for, I don’t know, shits and giggles probably.”

Ivan leans his head back and considers Alfred. It looks like he’s trying to build a wall around himself. His shoulders are hunching and, to Ivan’s dismay, his feet have pulled in enough to allow space between their bodies. Ivan plucks a brick from the wall. “Do you want them to visit you?”

Alfred lets his issue fall to his lap. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and props his head up. He’s facing Ivan, but his eyes are closed. “Don’t know,” he finally says. “It’s been a long time since Dad’s been happy to see me. Seeing me here would make that worse.”

It’s the most sober Ivan has ever seen him. He wishes Alfred would open his eyes for it.

“And Papa?” Ivan says, ever so softly so as not to scare him off. 

Alfred does his open his eyes for this. “We gave up on each other a while ago.” Alfred smiles, his feet pushing out.

Ivan lets Alfred return to pretending to read his comic and enjoys the nervous toes pressing into his thigh.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred is like one of Ivan’s old students. He’s young and mercurial, prone to passion that carries him halfway and then drops off before the finish line. There are glimpses of intelligence that are sparked by special interests, but anything short of exciting is not merely dismissed but rejected with a degree of indignation. Ivan finds himself slipping into lectures around him. At least, he suspects they are lectures because he tends to drone on with little response from his audience. Nonetheless, it is a habit Ivan is not particularly motivated to kick as it fills the silence and lends him an opportunity to explore his thoughts aloud. 

Ivan offers reading suggestions but Alfred shakes his head and says they’re too wordy. “Does every book you own try to use the biggest words possible?” he gripes. 

Ivan knows it’s just an excuse of many, but he takes the bait anyway. “Precision in language is an advantage you shouldn’t take lightly. There are languages with far fewer means of expression as well languages with far more. One says ‘extraordinary’ rather than simply ‘great’ because ‘extraordinary’ better captures the breadth of its significance. How else would you say that something is so great that is beyond the ordinary?” Ivan poses. 

Alfred tosses Ivan’s copy of  _ A Man Called Ove _ back in the box and shoves it under Ivan’s bed. “Just like that, I guess,” he mutters. “Nothing wrong with using full sentences.”

“Ah, but even those sentences are restricted when we try to eschew words uncommon in colloquial speech. After all, how frequently do humans actually say what they feel in explicit detail?” asks Ivan. “We contain depths that are unknown to even ourselves until we put words to them. Did you know it is philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein who said, ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’ We conceptualize reality around the vocabulary available to us, and the vocabulary available to us is shaped by the perceptions shared by our unique society.”

Ivan nearly jumps when Alfred settles his head onto his knee. Ivan pushes himself to continue talking without fully understanding what he’s saying. He doubts Alfred is listening anyway, which is a small comfort. Ivan doesn’t understand how they got into this position; Ivan sitting on his bed with Alfred nearly between his legs, cheek on his knee. Nothing leading up to this point had stood out to him. It was just Ivan and Alfred as they always are, talking at each other more than to each other, each seeking an escape in books that never changed and always let go eventually. 

Ivan looks at Alfred, this ever-changing man who varies by the hour and excites as much as allays him, and thinks he does not want to let go. Carefully, Ivan removes the crooked glasses from Alfred’s nose so they won’t get bent. Still talking, he folds the glasses and sets them to the side. As he waxes on about the expressive nature of language, about its ability to give life to latent thoughts, Ivan thinks that he may not have to let go.

 

* * *

 

It was only a matter of time before Ludwig became useful. Ivan definitely did not expect this to be the favor he calls in, but it’s a worthy one all the same. The lights have been out for an hour and Ludwig still has two hours left to his shift. Ivan can be satisfied with three hours total. It is more than he would have with any other guard.

On the bed opposite him, Alfred is for once blissfully asleep. It is the ideal night to do this. Ivan waits until he hears familiar footsteps nearing his room, then slips out the cover and pads softly into the hall. The lights are dimmed but still on and Ivan meets Ludwig halfway so he doesn’t wake Alfred. “Get in your room, Braginski,” Ludwig immediately orders. Ivan holds his ground and smiles.

“Security is sparse at night, isn’t it?” he remarks, keeping his hands in front of him so as not to spook the man. It’s not just sparse on the floor, either; Ivan has a sister who works the cameras three in the morning. Most days, she’ll be the only one checking aside from Ludwig. 

Ludwig visibly appraises Ivan, narrowed eyes roaming from his feet to his scalp. He doesn’t reach for his taser, which is a good sign, although his pace has slowed significantly. Ivan hardly had a calming presence as a tenure-track professor with a fiancé and a good home, but it is entertaining to see how much people recoil from him  _ now. _

“Get in your room,” Ludwig repeats.

“Just you in this hall,” Ivan continues. 

Ludwig’s hand moves to his utility belt. The warning is not lost on Ivan. “I’m enough,” Ludwig assure. “Now get in your room and lie down.”  
Ludwig is losing patience as Ivan’s aberrant behavior gets to him. _Best to move things along._ “You are enough for Vargas for sure. But sir, who is to watch the rest of us when you are watching our little Feliciano?”

Ivan fancies that Ludwig’s blanched face pair nicely with the bleach-white of the walls. “Excuse me?” Ludwig says, quiet and rough. Danger lies on his tongue like a serrated edge, but the growl is a tell in itself.

Ivan doubts he has to spell it out for him. There’s no confusion in Ludwig’s eyes. It is refreshing, being on the same page so quickly with someone. Ivan thinks he might have liked Ludwig outside the hospital as just two men hiding poor life decisions. “How about tonight — or tomorrow even, if you would prefer a day to think about your situation — you keep an eye on our friend Feliciano and I keep an eye on my roommate?” Ivan propositions. “Think of it as a buddy system.”

Ludwig glances quickly between Ivan and his room where Alfred is fast asleep. “You think I’m like you,” he says. 

“I know you are,” Ivan replies. 

“I should’ve transferred you out of here the second I saw the signs,” Ludwig says angrily, stalking towards Ivan. “Relationships between patients are  _ strictly  _ prohibited — ”

“Oh, indeed!” Ivan concurs. “Unfortunately, so are relationships between patients and staff. In fact, any case you could launch against me would soon be pushed to the side when I revealed just  _ why _ you were so motivated to transfer one of us.”

Ludwig freezes. He looks uneasily at Ivan’s room. “He knows too?”

Ivan nods with a sympathetic smile. It’s a lie, of course; Alfred would play Ivan’s cards the second he opened his mouth. But Ludwig needs to fear both of them for this to work. 

Ludwig’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, slow and pained. “We’re not like you two, just remember that.  _ Feli _ isn’t like you. He’s fallen on a rough patch but he’s got family and a good head on his shoulders.”

Ivan lets his amusement play on the cold upturn of his lips. “Oh, he’s special, is he?” he mocks. 

“He is,” Ludwig answers without hesitation. “He’s getting better and one day, he’s going to get out of here and we’re going to be together. The  _ correct  _ way. Whatever sick thing you’ve got going on with that headcase in there, it’s  _ doomed.  _ You can’t afford a lawyer good enough to reopen your case and Jones? He’s only going to get worse in here.”

Ivan is grinning now with all his teeth. He locks his fists behind his back so Ludwig can’t see him clenching them. “Maybe one day,” he admits, thinking of Feliciano with a clean bill of health in the arms of a man no better than Ivan. “But that day does depend on how well we get along tonight, doesn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are you here, Ivan?”

He’s not prepared for the question. He thinks of how to answer without answering. He thinks of the evidence laid out before him, how pleading not guilty just wasn’t an option. He thinks of Katyusha and how relief overtook her in shaking shoulders and muffled sobs. He replays the faces of Tommy’s parents, how they contorted in disgust and grief when they knew Ivan would be okay. He remembers Tommy.

“Because I was ordered to be here,” says Ivan. Before Alfred can inquire further, he asks, “And why are you here, Alfred?”

Alfred is silent long enough that Ivan believes he’s dropped the conversation. Then a voice arrives from the silence, not small but still scared. “I’m not like Feli,” Alfred insists. 

Ivan smiles fondly at Alfred even though he can’t even see it through the thick darkness. Ivan finds himself smiling for just himself more than he ever has before. “No,” he agrees. No, you are most certainly not like Feliciano. Which begs the question, doesn’t it?”

“I think Matthew put me here,” he speculates, but it’s no more an answer than Ivan’s. Alfred must not be in the mood to answer the million dollar question either. Instead he asks Ivan, “Do you think that medication works?”

Ivan searches his memory for what Alfred called it. He does his best to stay in Alfred’s world with him. “Flutix?” he recalls.

“No, the shit they give me,” Alfred snaps. “The same bullshit they give Feli. Do you think it works? Do you think it’s working? Do you — ”

Ivan interrupts before Alfred can work himself into a panic. “I certainly think it does something.” He doesn’t know if this is what Alfred wants to hear or doesn’t, but it is the truth. He’s more focused of late, sometimes for the better and sometimes, like now, for the worst. Alfred is in danger of thinking himself into a rabbit hole. No wonder his mind runs rampant with delusions, Ivan muses. All those thoughts had to go somewhere. 

Alfred falls back onto his bed, head hitting the pillow with a heavy thump. He’s pressing his hands into his eyes, rubbing violently, and Ivan is up before he can think his next action through. Ivan gently, gently holds Alfred’s wrist and sets it on the pillow. Alfred jerks his eyes open when he does, but they slip shut in within seconds. Ivan squeezes Alfred’s wrist again, feels the pulse beating beneath his skin before quitting his side. He settles back onto his bed and counts Alfred’s breaths until Ivan falls asleep. 

 

* * *

 

“My kid knew you.”

Ivan looks up from his tray to the cafeteria worker. Her auburn hair is tied into a neat bun but otherwise there’s no net. She has more crow’s feet than lines on her forehead, so she’s probably lived a relatively happy life. Ivan says nothing; waits for her to give him back his tray with his order. She doesn’t do that, just keeps looking at him with the order slip in her hand. 

“He says you were a good professor,” she adds. Ivan doesn’t know where she’s taking this but he finds himself slightly grateful that, if he had to find the one person in the hospital directly related to his past, it probably wasn’t the parent of one the students he failed. “I don’t watch the news too much,” she continues, “it’s chock full of sad things and I don’t have the energy for that. I asked Steve not to tell me or it will keep me up at night. Would it?”

Ivan almost tells her yes. Instead, he says, “I don’t know how appropriate this conversation is.” He glances behind his shoulder at where Alfred is sitting. He always sits with Feliciano. Ivan still hasn’t received a proper invite to sit at his lunch table so he just sits at the table in front of his where he can watch his expressions and movements from a distance. 

The cafeteria worker shrugs and begins assembling his tray. “Not much appropriate left in the world, I’m afraid,” she observes. She fixes the Jell-O cup atop the tray as the finishing touch. “And what little there is, isn’t here.”

Ivan takes the order when she hands it to him. Ivan hums in agreement, taking stock of the food today: chicken parmesan with a white bread slice, an apple, microwaved green beans, and of course, dessert in the form of Jell-O. Ivan can’t remember a time a balanced meal offered less real nutrition. He’s about to take his usual spot when he overhears Alfred’s voice raising. He stands in the middle of the cafeteria, his curiosity stilling him as Alfred waves something in front of Feliciano’s face. He’s standing on his knees at the table like a toddler, looming over the small schizo and his weepy brown eyes. 

“There’s other shit, too, you get more bathroom breaks at night, and I bet you there’s other shit I didn’t notice, either,” Alfred is ranting. Ivan is actually bordering on appreciative how Alfred’s body, still broad despite the lack of exercise softening his muscles, imposes itself over the frailer creature.

Feliciano has to look up at Alfred as he tries to defend himself in a shaking voice on the verge of tears.  _ Oh, Feliciano,  _ Ivan thinks piteously,  _ life is ever so trying for you.  _ He has to wonder why no one on the clock has to jumped in with soothing words yet. He glances around but only one of the three nurses usually on the floor is in the room currently, and she’s reading a book at Ivan’s otherwise empty table. “I’m sure if I just tell — ”

And Ivan steps in before Feliciano can follow that thought to a process and actually raise suspicion on himself. “Alfred,” Ivan beckons. He notices his fingers are clamped around his tray and consciously instructs his body to relax. Between two nervous wrecks and a guard afraid of his own desires, someone has to maintain a degree of poise. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he says this as neutrally as possible, trusting that if one elevated voice was to carry to the nurse it would be Ivan’s, although makes sure it still comes off as an order and not a request. 

Alfred roughly breaks away from the table and leaves his tray there. Ivan presses a light hand to the small of Alfred’s back, guiding him forward. As he does, he smiles courteously at Feliciano, the poor bastard’s eyes actually welling with tears, and sets his own tray beside Alfred’s abandoned order. The two of them head over to a comparably private corner of the cafeteria, Alfred fuming beside him. 

Before Ivan can open his mouth, Alfred is off like a pop. “Listen, I’m telling you, Feli,” Alfred jabs his thumb angrily in Feliciano’s direction, “is shifty as fuck. I’ve been noticing all kinds of shit but not saying nothing, but that brownie is the  _ final _ straw. Something is off, okay, I don’t know what but Feli definitely has connections — a key to this place or something; maybe he’s feeding notes through the heating vents to the kitchen — ”

“Alfred,” Ivan interrupts in a heavy sigh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could will his mounting frustration away. He’s finally rearranging the hospital into some resemblance of a life and Alfred is going to topple that with his fat mouth. He counts to three in his head before fixing Alfred with a cool stare. “Do you _ really  _ think Feliciano could pull all that off?”

Alfred doesn’t respond, just watches as Feliciano opposite the room tries to control his breathing. Ivan is certain Ludwig will hear about this and Ivan is not thrilled for tonight. Ludwig doesn’t have much on him, but deals like theirs are best maintained with little communication and excess tension. And if either Alfred or Feliciano take this brownie garbage up with staff, Ludwig will be out and there go Ivan’s nights. 

Feliciano may still bring up the matter of his party favor with someone trusted, like a nurse or his doctor, but Ivan is confident Ludwig will nip that in the bud. All Ivan has to worry about his own pet psycho looking like he’s ready to snap off Feliciano’s trembling hands. “Right, see,” Ivan murmurs, hoping to bring Alfred back to him with composure, “it doesn’t make sense for  _ Feliciano  _ to be the one orchestrating any grand brownie heist, does it?”

Alfred’s brows fold and Ivan can tell he’s hard at work, disentangling his suspicions and trying to make sense of his constructed world again. It was amazing how Alfred just built cities of incredibly history and infrastructure within seconds. Ivan wonders if he’ll ever be able to tear them as down quickly; or if he’d rather live inside them with Alfred.

“No,” Alfred slowly concedes. “He’s still caught up in  _ something, _ though,” he insists, and there it is, the cogs turning in his blue-sky eyes; another city being built. “Something he has no idea about that’s right over his head, a mile high.” Alfred’s finger taps his bottom lip thoughtfully and Ivan has to resist the urge to pull it down, replace Alfred’s fingers with his own. 

“It’s just a matter of who,” mutters Alfred. “Of course, the  _ obvious _ answer is whoever’s keeping Feli here and, by extension, the people keeping  _ me  _ here — but  _ why?”  _ Alfred’s eyes snap up to Ivan’s, earnest if not one-sided. He’s not so much asking Ivan as asking Alfred’s reflection. “And what does the brownie have to do with it?”

Ivan rests his head against the wall and decides to wait this out. “Well, it’s obviously a reward,” Alfred says so quickly the sentence may as well be one long word. “Even if  _ poor _ - _ stupid _ - _ Feli _ has no idea it is,” he says, emphasizing every syllable of his insult. He’s too close to home now and Ivan is itching to seize Alfred’s shoulders and shake him until all those thoughts fall out of his loose head, but he keeps going. “If there’s one thing Feli is, it’s talkative. He never shuts up, you know? He talks about tile colors and —  _ flowers, _ dumb shit, so he  _ is _ a spy, he  _ has  _ to be,” and as he talks, his volume is increasing and the people in the cafeteria are beginning to look at them warily. 

“Come on, Alfred, you can do better than that,” Ivan coaxes. He smiles reassuringly over Alfred’s shoulder at Feliciano who is looking at them panicked. “I do wonder the  _ coincidence,  _ though,” he mentions and hopes Alfred’s mind sticks on the key word. “Don’t you?” he prods. 

Alfred pauses and actually  _ bites _ his lip, and that’s a new quirk, isn’t it? Ivan almost bites his own lip in a mirror image. Alfred is so beautiful. Ivan can tell he’s getting closer to another revelation when he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay, okay. It has to do with me, I bet you. I’m the only guy in this place who’s going to notice something like that, the only one who can put this together. It was a message from…” here, Alfred trails off, clearly frustrated as he hits a wall. 

All that matters is that Alfred’s train of thought is on a safer path. “Feliciano as a means of communication,” Ivan repeats in order to cement the belief. “Yes, Alfred, I like that,” he approves. And because he can’t help it, not when Alfred’s eyes are so earnest and his face is so excited, he reaches out to pet his soft hair, smoothing back the cowlick that pops right back up from under his thumb. “Good boy,” he compliments. 

 

* * *

 

The hours following the brownie incident are a practice of patience. The afternoon passes pleasantly for Ivan but Alfred is a wreck of chaotic energy, head swiveling to track the source of every sound, feet tapping, skin-picking. He’s like a dog with a bone and it’s Ivan can do to avoid being bitten when he tries to put it away — “Just for tonight,” he assures. “You don’t want to alert the others that you’re onto the game.”

Alfred nods, albeit with the slightest petulance to the pout of his lip. He sees the value of waiting till there’s fewer eyes even if he doesn’t want to. And so Ivan enjoys his book during reading time, occasionally placing a hand for brief moments on Alfred’s knee whenever it begins to shake too hard, and he even encourages him to play Monopoly with a few others during game time while he meets with Dr. Héderváry. She asks him leading questions while he insists on playing Solitaire. All is well. 

The calm even lasts well into Ludwig’s shift starting at 4pm. Predictably, Ludwig hovers over Feliciano more than strictly necessary and only pries himself away when the nurses seem to be paying attention. Ivan is tempted to roll his eyes but doesn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to Ludwig and Feliciano than Alfred already has.

Look at Ivan worrying about eyes on him. Clearly Alfred is rubbing off on him. 

Equally predictably, it’s the second Ivan is alone that Ludwig pounces. He sees Ludwig waiting by the door on his way out the bathroom and this time Ivan  _ does _ roll his eyes. He stops short so there is an appropriate amount of distance between them, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “I take it little Feliciano told you of his day?”

This, apparently, is all Ludwig needs to jump in. “You keep Jones _ away  _ from him, do you hear me? Your boy is bad news for him and I  _ will not _ have him risk Feliciano’s progress.” His voice is hushed but not soft. Ivan appraises his body language, how Ludwig is practically leaning forward while glued in place. He’s impressed; he thinks Ludwig may have actually had the nerve to accost him had they been but two men on the street. 

Ivan sighs lightly for show. “I’m afraid you are not in a position to be giving the demands, Ludwig,” he mourns. “But if you have problems with  _ my boy,” _ Ivan quotes, and though he means it ironically, he ends up liking the taste of it on his tongue, “by all means, take it up with him.”

Figuring the conversation finished, Ivan walks forward. He thinks he’ll join the knitting circle today for its last half hour, but he is stopped by Ludwig’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced down at the limb like a flea. “Is that such a good idea?” Ivan murmurs, his eyes tracing the tendon in Ludwig’s fist to his arm up to his enraged face. 

Ludwig doesn’t even bother checking behind his shoulder for onlookers. He gets right into Ivan’s space. Ivan immediately dislikes the invasion, is reviled by it, but stands his ground nonetheless. He gazes to one of the cameras meaningfully and hopes that sends Ludwig a message. The attempt is a failed one; Ludwig’s glare is so focused Ivan realizes quickly there’s no use in avoiding his next words:

“I mean it, Braginski. If so much as a _hair_ on his head is touched, if Alfred does absolutely _anything_ to compromise Feliciano’s progress — I don’t give a _damn_ what happens to me when they find out. I _will_ come for you, and maybe you’ll be safe but you’ll have _no_ _one_ to cover for your sick ass when I’m gone.”

Ivan stays stock still and simply stares Ludwig down for a while. To his surprise, there is not a hint of a bluff. And if Ivan is being honest with himself, Ludwig doesn’t seem the sort to lie about his pet. Eventually Ivan lets out a puff of air in a breathy chuckle. “Oh my,” he exclaims, “I do believe you’re serious, aren’t you? How touching,” he compliments, removing Ludwig’s hand from his shoulder with only a faint expression of disgust. Ludwig lets his hand drop to his side, still balled in an angry fist. “Alright, then, comrade,” Ivan agrees and winks. 

He leans down close so his eyes are level with Ludwig’s. His voice is barely a whisper: “I’ll see what I can do about our boys, hm?” 

This time, Ludwig lets him leave. Ivan’s a tad irritated, he’ll admit, but he’s confident Alfred will do just fine with less one friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred paces their bedroom like a caged tiger. Back and forth, back and forth he goes in the sliver of space separating their beds. Natalya has sent Ivan a new book that was on his reading list, so he keeps his gaze on the pages and tries not to let Alfred’s nervous energy distract him. He is having little success.

“I just can’t _think,”_ Alfred says and digs his fingers into his scalp. “But I _need_ to think, they _want_ me to think, that’s why they’ve been doing all this, I just need to focus —because there is something _up_ with that brownie —”  
Ivan slams his book down on his lap. “For the love of God, Alfred, stop with the brownie,” he begs. He thought Alfred had moved past that, but apparently not. It’s getting difficult to decipher what goes on in Alfred’s head these days. The meds don’t stop his wheels from spinning; they just make the engine quieter. That much became clear during yesterday’s lunch with Feliciano. 

“I have a plan,” says Alfred, halting mid-step and looking Ivan dead in the eye.

“A plan,” Ivan repeats, unimpressed. If it involves Feliciano whatsoever, Ivan doesn’t know how he’ll get Alfred to back off. He once again can’t help but envision Alfred a dog, this time chewing on a Feliciano-shaped squeaky toy. 

Alfred darts forward and leans over Ivan’s bed, tail practically wagging. “I have big tonsils,” he says like this right here is the key to the world. 

Ivan lifts his eyebrows and waits for Alfred’s usual elaboration. None is provided, but he doubts Alfred’s oral anatomy is going to directly involve his chew toy, so Ivan isn’t alarmed. He picks up his book and sifts through the paragraphs to find the sentence he left off on. 

Alfred squeezes the mattress impatiently. “Seriously, they’re big, Ivan. I used to look at them in the mirror when I was a kid and one time I made Matthew open his mouth and his were way, way smaller.”

Ivan has a brief moment wherein he tries to imagine what Alfred must have looked like as a young boy and not this broad-shoulder, muscular man before him whose world so easily bends to its knees. He can’t, which is a pity. “I hardly see what this has to do with the brownie,” Ivan says, “or more importantly, what this has to do with your  _ special message.”  _

He wonders if Alfred has any pictures of himself as a kid online that Natalya or Katyusha could find him.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning comes and the nurses make their med rounds. Ivan takes his first, shifting his tongue this way and that and saying ‘ahh’ until the nurse is satisfied. They’re mood stabilizers and while they may have an effect on them, Ivan hasn’t noticed anything beyond general drowsiness — and even that could just be a symptom of the hospital itself and not the stabilizers. Alfred is summoned into the hall after him. ‘Miss Michelle,’ as she insists the patients call her, inquires into Alfred’s sleep last night as she hands him the pills in a cup. Alfred says he  _ slept fine, thank you for asking _ , then he goes ‘ahh’ and is permitted to return to his bed. 

Miss Michelle is already at the next room when Alfred walks back in and begins hacking into his hand. He holds out his palm and there, sticky and crumbling, are two little pills. Alfred is grinning proudly. “Tonsils,” he explains.

Ivan makes a mental note to guide Alfred towards a hand sanitizer dispenser later. “That was disgusting. But clever,” he acknowledges. He’s impressed by Alfred’s strange ingenuity. Alfred is at constant war with reality. For Ivan, a war like that would feel unwinnable. Around Alfred, though, the walls that build their world seem flimsy. They collapse, fall to the wayside, because what are walls to a man who can climb them? 

Alfred puts Ivan’s efforts to shame. 

Alfred brags about his cleverness while flicking the chalky remains into the heating vent. He strides over to Ivan, folding his arms over his chest and looking like a fallen king soon to reclaim his title. “Now I can  _ think _ again,” he says, lifting his chin.

Ivan looks back at Alfred and admires the confidence in his brow, the strong jawline, the sheer way he holds himself as if he knows better and it’s the rest of the world that’s trapped. “And what a delight that will be,” murmurs Ivan. 

“Wanna’ see ‘em?” Alfred asks. Ivan hums inquisitively. “My tonsils,” Alfred clarifies and opens his mouth wide. 

Ivan places a finger under Alfred’s chin and gently elevates it. “They’re pretty big,” he agrees. He waits until Alfred is done demonstrating and then Ivan drags Alfred’s lips to his. Ivan means to keep it brief, but when he pulls away, Alfred follows in the same fluid motion. Ivan sucks on his bottom lip, reveling in how easy it is to take. He thinks of Alfred biting his lip that day in the cafeteria and nips at him, drags his bottom lip with his teeth. He’s about to go in for another kiss when he hears footsteps. Ivan’s hands come down on Alfred’s shoulders like cinder blocks and he thrusts Alfred off of him. 

Nurse Erika, a petite blonde who wears ribbons in her hair like Natalya, pops her head in. “Are you two ready for breakfast?” she asks. 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” answers Alfred. Ivan lets him lead the conversation as they follow Nurse Erika down the hall. Alfred’s abrasive voice strips away the moment they shared, giving none of them, least of all sweet Erika with ribbons in her hair, time to speculate where they were going and where they could’ve gone. 

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet time. Everyone is allowed to do whatever quiet activity they please except nap. That, Nurse Michell explains when she catches Ivan dozing off, would mess with their circadian rhythm. Although the hour has far more freedom than most of the day, the hospital has infected its patients with routine. Feliciano and Lukas rarely talk to each other, but every day during quiet time they sit side-by-side in the common room, Feliciano finger-painting and Lukas drawing with the bluntest pencil the nurses can find. Ivan used to read in the common room, listening to Alfred try to talk to others and getting shushed by nurses every five minutes. Now Ivan reads in their room and Alfred accompanies him. 

Unlike the others, Alfred rarely spends quiet time in the same manner as yesterday. He’s tried reading, he’s tried writing, he’s tried drawing and finger-painting and crosswords puzzles and sudoku and every other imaginable way to shut Alfred up. Today, he sits on his bed and stares eerily at the ceiling, occasionally jotting something down in a notepad with frantic speed. It’s probably not the most comforting sight to whoever is watching the cameras today, but it is safe and quiet. 

 

* * *

 

Ivan hasn’t been a light sleeper since he came to the hospital. The strict routine and the drowsy meds have brought the one shining benefit of uninterrupted sleep. That’s why Ivan feels the need to investigate when he awakes for no apparent reason. Ludwig is on tonight, giving Ivan relatively free range of at least this hall. Alfred is fast asleep in his own bed, limbs awkwardly splayed and tangled in the sheets. Both his feet are out and one is missing a sock. Ivan has to hand it to Alfred — for all his chaotic energy during the day, he is a sound, albeit rough, sleeper.

Ivan leans down to plant a kiss on his nose. Alfred’s face scrunches and he rubs his nose with a clumsy, flailing arm before rolling to his side.

The hallway is deserted. Ivan looks at the ceiling for a flickering light or a leak — nothing. He quietly pads over to the rooms around him and peers into each one, expecting  
someone awake or at least a snore. Everyone is still. _And where, oh where, could Ludwig be?_

What is Feliciano’s room number again? Ivan racks his brain. It’s some doors down, he  
knows that, because he and Feliciano rarely run into each other in the morning or the night. He also remembers hearing his old roommate say the number to a friend when he was transferred to Feliciano’s cell. Ivan keeps walking, knowing this isn’t a game to play and yet unable to deny his curiosity. Would he find them in the throes of passion right there? Would Feliciano’s roommate be asleep beside them as they made love like a silent movie, movements rushed, jerky, mouths open with no sound?

Doubtful. There are cameras in every room even if night security is lax. Ivan doesn’t worry too much about his room’s camera, not with Katyusha working 7pm-3am, but he’s not sure Ludwig has the same connections.

He might. But even then, Ivan can’t picture Ludwig being so bold. He imagines Ludwig sealing his hand over Feliciano’s mouth and driving into him, fast before they run out of time, before their luck runs out and Feliks wakes, and – Ivan almost laughs at the thought. No, as dirty as Ludwig is, it takes a different kind of man to commit a crime of that intimacy; to do it where his lover sleeps. _Although Ludwig’s lover may be malleable enough for him to get away with it,_ Ivan muses.

He does find Feliks in bed, jaw slack and a trail of drool dribbling down his chin. A long strand of hair sticks to the saliva there. Ivan is not surprised, however, to find Feliciano’s bed empty. Ivan is about to head to the bathrooms when he hears voices from the behind the double doors leading to the staircase. Ah, so this is what woke him.

The doors open revealing Ludwig with a hand on Feliciano’s back. Feliciano is whispering something to him and Ludwig looks at him fondly. _Oh, to be young and in love._ Ludwig’s gaze is on Ivan in the next instant and all tenderness abandons his expression as his brows come crashing together and his teeth bared. Ludwig hurries Feliciano towards his room, inserting himself between Feliciano and Ivan who still stands by the doorway.

Feliciano’s hair is well-mussed, lips swollen, and nightshirt crooked over his shoulders. Ivan nods politely to him and Feliciano is clearly about to speak when Ludwig orders him to get in bed with a fierce whisper. Feliciano obeys without a word, which has Ivan raising his eyebrows. “You’ve got him well-trained,” he compliments, already moving away from the door. Ludwig follows him. “I’m impressed, truly. If I tried that on Jones, he’d ignore me or sock me.”

“Hey,” Ludwig practically spits. “We are not like you, okay? _I’m_ not like you, so don’t start making comparisons as if we’re friends swapping tips.”

“My mistake,” Ivan quips, “I thought we were both carrying illicit relationships inside a mental hospital with men who cannot separate life from delusion. But no, you are right, we have different concerns. Yours thinks the sky is falling and mine thinks he caused it.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” growls Ludwig. “You can laugh all you want at Jones but _I_ actually care about Feliciano. That’s what separates us. I love him. We have _dreams_ together. He’s not going to rot in here like you two. He _can_ tell what’s real and what’s not because he’s not content thinking everyone else is out to get him.

“You can have all the fun you want with your _partner_ – ” Ludwig’s tone catches mockingly on that word, “— but Feliciano and I want better. We’re going to get out of here and do this _right.”_

Ivan stops walking a few feet short of his room. He locks his fists behind his back, hides the anger turning his knuckles white, and just stares at Ludwig for some time. He tilts his head at him. He’s learned something new about Ludwig, he thinks: Ludwig is quite good at compartmentalization to humanize Feliciano alone.

It’s frustrating and almost laughable how Ludwig sees Feliciano as special in a hospital full of people just like him; people labeled crazy and then neatly boxed up until they’re presentable enough to be unwrapped for society. As if Feliciano is the exception and not the rule.

“I have a question for you,” Ivan finally says. “You do not have to answer it, but I know you will think about it and I only hope you can be honest with yourself if not with me: what makes your actions so drastically different from mine?” he questions.

“Intent,” Ludwig answers automatically, but Ivan’s next words begin just as Ludwig’s end.

“You think I do not want the same?” Ivan asks. Whatever Ludwig wanted to say, it’s been stopped with a foot to the brakes at Ivan’s question. “You think Alfred and I are content to live in instability without privacy, without intimacy, until one or both of us are eaten alive by these walls?”

Ivan takes a step closer. “Do you think I don’t  _ miss  _ my family, or do you think I don’t  _ have _ family? Or do you just not think of us at all?” He leans in so he can whisper almost into Ludwig’s ear. “Do not think yourself special for craving your own happiness,” Ivan advises. 

Finished with this interaction, he goes into his room and waits for the sound of Ludwig’s departure. Sleep comes slow and bittersweet. He dreams of the house he once shared with his sisters, and of going to work and meeting a blue-eyed boy with a cowlick and wide tonsils.

 

* * *

 

Ivan is sitting at his usual spot with Dr. Héderváry. Right now, she’s telling him how disinterested he has come off lately in their sessions. She worries he may be regressing in his treatment and wishes he would engage again. Ivan is vaguely aware of apologizing to her. He’s more focused on Alfred who, as of ten minutes ago, took a seat beside Feliciano. They are just far enough away so that Ivan cannot overhear them. He can only watch as Alfred grows increasingly animated, hands gesturing wildly and his voice becoming violently loud at some points before abruptly dropping to a whisper. 

Ivan is halfway to convincing himself it’s fine, that Feliciano may not even tell Ludwig about Alfred’s conspiracies today, when Alfred throws another emphatic hand into the air and accidentally nails Feliciano in the face. Ivan instinctively stands, but then so does Dr. Héderváry. Feliciano looks okay; the smack must have been light. 

He glances at his doctor and smiles playfully. “Going somewhere?” he asks lightly. 

Dr. Hédérvary’s expression if one of pure bafflement. “I should ask you, Ivan,” she counters. 

Ivan lowers himself back into his chair. “You are lucky I am not the skittish sort,” he teases. “I have seen patients here accuse their doctors of violent intent for less.” It’s an innocent comment, but Dr. Héderváry does not take it that way.

“Do you believe I have violent intent, Ivan?” she asks, sitting back down as well. _ Again, with the leading questions,  _ he thinks wearily. 

“No,” he answers easily, “I am just pointing out how unconventional you are sometimes.”

Dr. Héderváry does not like how the conversation is unfolding if her checking her watch for the first time is any indication. He’s been keeping track of the time with the analog clock on the wall behind Alfred’s head. They have some time to go. 

“Unconventional how?” Dr. Héderváry inquires. 

Ivan considers his phrasing. He shrugs. “You are just very genuine, that’s all. Most psychologists prioritize composure above all else, always scrutinizing their patients for any sign of upset.” Ivan stretches his legs forward so they rest against Dr. Héderváry’s chair. “What would you have done had I,” Ivan flicks his fingers, “run off? Would you have chased me down?”

He hears Alfred groan in exasperation. Ivan can hear him exclaim,  _ “No, he’s not… ”  _ before Alfred’s voice drops to a whisper again.

“Would you like to end our session early, Ivan?” asks Dr. Héderváry. 

Ivan tears his eyes away from Alfred’s table long enough to take advantage of the out. “You are always a delight, doctor,” he praises, “and we may have just found something in common; yes, I think an early end may be the best for today. Always next week,” he assures, already standing up.

“This isn’t about what I want,” Dr. Héderváry tries to clarify, but Ivan has a deal to make good on. He strides over to the table where Alfred and Feliciano are seated.

“Feliciano,” he greets, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and smiling apologetically. “Would you mind giving Alfred and I some privacy?”

Feliciano’s eyes are wide. Ivan checks his face for the slightest injury, but Alfred’s clumsy enthusiasm has left no mark. Regardless, Feliciano plays the part of kicked puppy perfectly. Ivan wonders how his family manages to leave him here every day after visits with those shaking shoulders and tucked tail. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Feliciano says and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ivan briefly worries that his smiles aren’t all the way there either. Ivan dismisses the thought for later as Feliciano scampers off. 

Ivan takes his place with no complaint from Alfred. He doesn’t even bother starting over, just soldiers on in his theory that “the doctor” was keeping everyone here against their will. “Really?” Ivan asks if just to see where Alfred takes this. “Why would he want to keep people here?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s simple, isn’t it? Doctors have  _ egos, _ everyone knows that, and this is how they can flex. So when doctors like,” Alfred trails off, visibly floundering. 

“Dr. Väinämöinen,” Ivan guesses. He knows him to be Alfred’s doctor. It’s doubtful Alfred would have had enough interaction with anyone else’s doctors here to appropriate them into his web. 

“Right, yes!” Alfred pounces. “When Dr. V got some people who were misunderstood, it made him feel like he had a big dick to keep me here.” Alfred rests his arms on the table and crosses them angrily. “The fucker,” he spits, looking down to the side. “He’s not completely evil,” he mutters. Ivan watches, enraptured, as Alfred recreates this man he barely knows. “He just wants to see if you’re smarter than him,” he explains, opening his palms and staring at them hard. Ivan wonders what he sees. 

“If you’re smarter than him and you can solve his puzzles, catch his clues,” Alfred reasons, “he’ll let you go.”

“You see a way out,” Ivan states. He brushes his fingertips over Alfred’s open, empty palms.

“Yeah,” Alfred says, either to Ivan or himself, and nods. “Shit like that. Shit like the brownie.”

Ivan leans back in his chair with a tired sigh. “You are obsessed with this brownie.”

Alfred slides his hands to the end of the table and grips the wood. For the first time in their conversation, Alfred is looking Ivan in the eyes. “It’s all a part of the puzzle, Ivan,” he says with utmost sobriety. Something tender makes itself known in Ivan’s chest as he stares at this beautiful young man who never learned self-doubt. And then he thinks of Ludwig’s prediction, of Alfred only getting worse as everyone who tries to help him is suspect, and something sad envelopes that something tender. 

 

* * *

 

Alfred has an appointment with his doctor today. It is schedule during small group activity time. Ivan has joined the modest crocheting circle which consists of Nurse Erika and one other patient besides Ivan. He’s working on a headband which he plans to give to Alfred as a sleep mask because he often complains about the bright lights of the hallway keeping him up at night. The colors are red, white, and blue. 

Nurse Erika brightly asks, “Oh, like the Russian flag?”

Ivan frowns. Did he get the color order wrong? He tries to count the pattern but it’s a circle and maybe Erika just looked at the wrong color first — 

His thoughts are interrupted by three guards barreling down the hall with one nurse in tow. Immediately the common room erupts in chatter as patients ask what’s happening and nurses tell them all is well, please remain seated and continue group activities. 

Ivan watches the spot where the guards just were. Then he looks around, tries to remember all the patients and perform a head count. They’re all here. All of them except for Alfred. 

“Don’t you want to finish your headband? It’s looking so good,” Nurse Erika patronizes. Ivan glances down at the sleep mask in his lap, tries to picture Alfred wearing it to bed. Feeling cold, Ivan picks up his hook and winds the red yarn around, around, around. 

 

* * *

 

Ivan waits two weeks for a word of Alfred. Not a word from — he doesn’t expect Alfred to reach out. Even sharing a room, Alfred struggled with the concept of the other. He spoke to whoever would listen and Ivan simply did his best to be the one listening. Now that Ivan isn’t physically around, he’ll likely fade as a character in Alfred’s universe. Object permanence doesn’t seem his strong suit and as upset as Ivan is, he can’t fault Alfred for being himself. 

Ivan does make inquiries. He hasn’t much to risk now that he’s lost. Unfortunately, hospital staff are tight-lipped. He asks Dr. Héderváry to find out, pleads with her even, and it’s his vulnerability that likely made her give in. By their next meeting on the second week, Dr. Héderváry can confirm he has been transferred to another hospital. He asks her where, but she claims confidentiality about the exact location. When that argument doesn’t work, she tells him the truth: it’s best that he move on.

So, he asks Katyusha to keep her ear to the ground. She says the people she works with aren’t really the people who would know, but —  _ “well, like I said, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” _

He asks Natalya who has his answer by Friday afternoon. Alfred is in the same state, just an hour north at St. Peter’s Hospital. Natalya sourced her information from a nurse whom the incident details had trickled down to. “His name is Toris. We had lunch earlier,” she tells Ivan, glancing sheepishly up at him from under silvery bangs. “He’s very manly,” she adds.

Ivan spends the rest of that day thinking over Natalya’s information. Somehow, Alfred had obtained a weapon — a boxcutter with a half-inch blade — which he used against his psychiatrist, Tino Väinämöinen. The hallway outside Tino Väinämöinen’s adjunct office had been empty save for Ludwig Beilschmidt, a guard who had come in earlier than his shift to drop some papers off. He heard shouting while passing by and ran in to find the doctor backed into the wall with bloodied hands. The guard immediately tackled the patient to the ground, where his weapon was removed and he was chemically and physically restrained by three other guards. 

Ivan’s mind catches on Ludwig’s involvement, naturally. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His presence, Natalya informs him, is regarded as a somewhat of a miracle by hospital staff. Ivan and Ludwig have not interacted since the night outside the room he once shared with Alfred. Any conversation would be pointless beyond giving Ludwig the chance to openly gloat, and he’s too busy basking in his victory to taint it with Ivan’s two cents. 

Ivan sits back in that one loveseat in the hospital. He sits back and watches Ludwig lingering near Feliciano. He watches Ludwig far more closely than he ever bothered before. He wonders if his face has always been this open around Feliciano, or if this has newly developed from his sense of hard-won freedom. Ideas unfurl across Ivan’s mind like invisible yet hard-to-shake spiderwebs. Once the thought flies into his brain it can’t break free. It spins itself tighter and deeper until Ivan is all but consumed by it. 

Ivan’s bed is perfectly made. The pillow case is smooth, the sheets turned down in a straight edge, blanket tucked in at the corners. It has not been touched since the morning following Alfred’s final appointment with Dr. Väinämöinen. Ivan has taken to sleeping in Alfred’s bed. He pretends to rest when the nurses come by and turn off the lights. He waits there, on Alfred’s mattress, although his warmth and his scent has long since left it, until he hears the familiar footfalls of Ludwig. Then Ivan pushes the blankets to the bottom of the bed, turns his legs over, and walks over to the doorframe. 

Ludwig pauses in his pacing at the sight of Ivan, but his paralysis is short-lived before he quickens his pace towards him. Ivan almost expects Ludwig to grind out an order of, “Go to bed, Braginski,” but Ludwig says nothing as he closes the distance. 

“I do wonder how he got the boxcutter,” Ivan remarks. Ludwig’s jaw flexes beneath his skin. “It’s a small room with not much ground to explore. I would have noticed something like that if it had been there even two days before Dr. Väinämöinen’s little surprise,” he assures Ludwig. “And I know Alfred’s family hasn’t visited him in, gosh, months. Who could have possibly given him a knife?” Ivan raises his eyebrows and stares at Ludwig almost imploringly. “Who could’ve benefited from such reckless endangerment?” he asks softly. 

Ludwig swallows something hard in his throat. “Go to bed, Braginski,” he commands. 

Ivan nods, not surprised. “Good night, Ludwig. I hope you have been enjoying you dreams lately. I know I will enjoy mine tonight.”

Ivan returns to the room, getting to his knees to remove the box of books from beneath his old bed. He opens the box and retrieves his notebook along with a mechanical pencil courtesy of Ludwig some time ago. Curling beneath Alfred’s sheets, Ivan spends the night writing instead of sleeping. The hours shift from late to early, but Ivan pays no attention to the ache in his tired eyes and bones, only the unfurling of a web onto paper. 

 


End file.
